


Bestiary Entry: Yennefer of Vengerberg

by dread_thehalfhanded



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Blindfolds, Explicit Language, F/M, Lambert sees Yen boss his brothers around and is into that for several reasons, Light Bondage, Oviposition, Pegging, Sorceress business, Yen has an exotic sex toy collection that may or may not include real monster parts, hijinks ensue, violence to frogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:34:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dread_thehalfhanded/pseuds/dread_thehalfhanded
Summary: “Geralt, if you’re reading this, get the hell out of my shit.” – Witcher Lambert, School of the Wolf
Relationships: Lambert/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54





	Bestiary Entry: Yennefer of Vengerberg

A time comes in a man’s life when he comes up against something so wholly and incomprehensibly beyond him that he has two options: fall to his knees in abject devotion, or declare himself a sceptic, and the thing before him a trick of the light—and so damn himself to the end of his days.

A wise man will choose the latter: If he must be up an ass, it will be his own and he will know the territory.

But a fool? A fool is caught like a harpy in a trap.

“Well, ain’t that a nice way to start a story?”

Lambert, school of the wolf, and never known for the wisdom of his brothers or the kindness of their hands, looked the alderman up, down, and sideways. (It’s a shit old world and we’re just shittin’ in it, why put on airs?)

In the light of the village square, this old raisin looked shady for an alderman. Here in the shadows, with a puff of smoke curling from lazy lips, he clearly enjoyed whatever trouble he’d caused in his short, sorry life.

“If you tell me you’ve gone and lost two witchers on a mystery monster that you’ve never once laid eyes on, you’ve got another think coming. Tell it true—without the moralizing, this time.”

Grinning, the old man bared two black teeth and two gold.

“Two witchers came, and two witchers went, and two witchers have not returned. Albert does not lie.”

Albert was on his way to judge, jury, & executioner on that point—but mostly executioner—if this third witcher’s glare was anything to go by. In a flash of movement faster than a snake striking, Lambert tossed the old man up by his coat collar and pinned him to the barn wall.

“I know they came this way and I know you gave them the contract, now tell me what they hunted, you rancid sack of nekker nutsac—"

_Crack-crack-crack-BOOM._

The wall behind the old man burst open like ice shattering on the surface of a pond, and the words died in his throat as he cast Quen on reflex—deigning to shield the alderman as well. A split moment of tremor in the air was all the warning he’d had, and he savored his own reaction time even as the lumber splintered around them. Not so fancy now, huh Eskel? Fucker.

When the worst of the debris had fallen, he stood up and shoved the alderman aside, hand on silver. Only so many things could blast a hole like that, and he didn’t want to meet any of them. Wyvern? Unlikely this time of year, too cold. Griffin? Something worse?

Through the clearing smoke, he heard the tell-tale clicks of a woman’s shoes, followed by several pairs of stumbling boots.

“Yen, was that really necessary?”

…Geralt’s voice? Fuck.

His eyes narrowed, as a halo of dark hair became visible through the smoke.

A small, black-haired woman stepped carefully through the blasted opening, dainty as any princess stepping from her carriage. Less princess-like was the truly furious look of scorn over her carved features, and the fact that she was dragging a very large, very uncomfortable looking man by his collar.

Eskel? Really fuck.

He took a step back. Maybe two.

The woman did not even look at him, but swept her gaze around for the alderman, who was scooting surreptitiously towards the (still intact) barn door.

“Stop right there.”

Her voice rolled out thick as thunder, and Albert appeared to experience either an orgasm or a small seizure, as he threw his head back and forth without locomoting anywhere. He did stop crawling, and hid his head in the straw. The woman smiled a knife-sharp smile, and said:

“Oh, Albert. We have things to discuss. Come here.”

Albert appeared to have met his master. He got up, trembling limb by limb, and slowly turned to face her.

It was at this moment that Geralt stepped through the gap in the wall, head bowed sheepishly like a boy caught breaking windows.

Lambert thought that he might have, in fact, died and gone to heaven—an arrangement which he elected not to disturb by commenting on it. He did sheath his sword and step back to give this strange scene space to play out. He fully intended to commit the entirerty of whatever happy accident had occurred to memory.

“Ma’am,” said Albert, ingratiatingly.

“Didn’t I tell you I was to be left alone?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you swear my safety and space to work uninterrupted?”

“Yes.”

“Then why is it, dear Albert, that I find not one, but two witchers at my door? It’s almost as if—” her voice dropped impossibly further, a dangerous pitch of smoke and dragonfire, “Someone had set a contract for the _monster_ at the end of the lane.”

Albert did not appear to have a defense for this. He smiled widely, all teeth on display, before a sharp crackle from the sorceress’s left hand rendered him—

Amphibious.

A small gold and black frog blinked up at the four of them in the following silence. The sorceress, without pausing, scooped up the frog and popped him into a bag. Then, she dropped him on the floor, and ground her bootheel into him—it—with a squelching that was very palpable indeed.

“You didn’t have to do that,” mumbled Eskel, but not nearly loud enough to sound like he meant it.

“Oh, but I did. What if word got out that he set witchers on a sorceress? Think of the messes you all would be in.”

No one seemed to have anything to say to that.

Lambert cleared his throat.

“Well met, Wolves?”

Both men hung their heads and refused to look at him, Geralt in particular desperate to fix his gaze on anything else.

The woman raised her eyes from the mess on the floor to regard him with a cool, purple indifference.

“Another one.”

“Yen, this is Lambert. Our little brother,” said Geralt, quietly. “Lam, this is Yennefer. Of Vengerberg.”

The woman’s gaze flitted over him as though he were no more than a little bug on her path.

“Charmed,” she said, and tugged on Eskel’s collar once more before letting him go. “Now, I will have to move my workshop again, and you two are going to help me back. Penance for disrupting my work not once, but twice. Don’t dither.”

With a click-snap of heels and a flash of that cape of hair, she swayed from the carnage with all the ownership of the rightful architect.

The three men were left alone in the smoke.

“What,” said Lambert. “What the actual ever-living fuck was that.”

Geralt shrugged. “That’s Yen.”

“What did you even do?? And why are _you_ here?” he added, looking at Eskel, who looked a little red and uncomfortable under the collar still but had at least started to stand a little more upright.

“The alderman put out a contract for a fiend of some sort,” rumbled Eskel. “He was here, so was I. Bothered the lady.” He shrugged. “Rest’s obvious.”

“You can wipe that smug grin off your face,” added Geralt. “She’s always like that.”

Lambert placed his hand over his heart, and with the utmost sincerity, stated, “I feel for you both. Truly I do. It must be very difficult to make a mistake.”

With the defensive instinct only a younger sibling could have, he flicked Quen even as he said it, and Geralt had to pull his punch.

He grinned widely from within his golden shield, and Eskel rolled his eyes.

“Could’ve happened to anyone.”

“So, who’s collecting on this one?”

“Do you see shit to collect?”

Geralt waved his hand at the bloodstain on the floor.

Hmm. He had a point.

\---

And so it was that Yennefer of Vengerberg first branded herself onto the impressionable brain of a young witcher. Hard to forget a woman like that. Hard to forget watching your brothers get stepped on and kicked around like runt pups—and he made sure to tell that part of the story loudly and with fervor at Kaer Morhen that winter. And for several following it.

What? It’s a good story. Be a shame to waste it.

The parts of the story that he didn’t share, or care to admit, ran a little deeper.

Like how he’d felt watching her crush that frog under her boot like it was nothing. How her voice rolled out ringing, resonant. A wordless muster, a call to arms, a summoning. She knew what was best for a man, and would see him to it whether he liked it or not. He’d wanted—

Well. Best not to dwell on it.

For some years, Lambert managed quite well at that. Out on the Path, beating the wide dirt of the world under his boots, killing the ugliest creatures known to man, and drinking as much and as often as possible. It’s—well it’s not a good life or an honest one, but it’s a life.

 _Better this than the alternative_ , he thought, one brutal evening in a disgusting little inn in southern Temeria. He intended to drink the inn out of cherry cordial and sleep in the bed he’d paid for until someone tried to bodily remove him from it—when he heard it again.

Sonorous, dark, and rolling. Her voice, rich and full, suddenly swallowing up the whole room. Taken sudden and without warning—he wants to be buried in it when he dies, feel it falling over him with the dirt.

“Might any of you gentlemen spare a room for the evening?”

He turned around from his seat, two bottles in front of him and not even a pleasant buzz behind the eyes, and saw her. Her.

She hadn’t aged a day, clay-smooth skin unbroken, tight v of her jacket tied to the same impossible point, the firm click of her boots tolling his demise. Yennefer.

The innkeeper, equally dazzled but not blind to the opportunity for coin, bowed deeply and handed her a key. She did not spare him a second look, but plucked it from his fingers like an overripe fruit and strode up the stairs without looking back.

Lambert blinked. Did she even see them, the men, the room? Or were they all just furniture to her, for her use when necessary and nothing more?

Not an awful idea, that. 

The rest of the room recovered just as slowly, men picking their jaws and junk off the floor, returning to their ale and their dice games. Lambert felt strongly that he ought to do something, something—the woman was dangerous—but couldn’t come up with anything.

So, he ordered another three drinks. Shit would have it that his mutation would be “unhealthy alcohol consumption”—fucking Eskel and his signs. Fucking Geralt and his face.

Another bottle of cherry liquor down, and he’d almost forgotten about the sudden arrival of both his wettest dream and darkest nightmare, in one package—when she swept down the stairs again. This time, she surveyed the room, slipping from one face to another with courtly ease. She looked at him, he thought, for a split second longer than the others, but he didn’t feel seen.

When she moved to the bar to order, he felt compelled to acquire another cordial for himself despite the two full bottles still on the table. When he got in line behind her, he couldn’t help but sniff at her air—she smelled clean. What a fucking miracle in a place like this.

He desperately hoped she would turn around and give him the chance to say something at her—

Well, what would he have to say to a woman like that?

Best not.

He kept his mouth shut for all of three seconds before opening it to comment something, anything—

Yennefer turned before he could speak.

“You think very loudly, Wolf.”

He blinked, and said the first thing that came into his head:

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

She would be a ma’am, wouldn’t she? Fuck, he didn’t know anything about manners. He almost regretted not learning. Almost.

She leveled him with a look.

“You’re not the only one in here with a similar problem. I shall allow it.”

He could have sworn the left corner of her lip twitched up as she said it, but he’d been wrong before. He blinked a few times, staring stupidly at her and the thought crossed his mind to kneel. Witchers don’t often cross paths with royalty, but he knew it when he saw it.

She smiled, a knife-cut of red lip, almost real. 

“Lambert, isn’t it?”

The sound of his name in her mouth made him want to cry, or whoop with joy, or spend a very enthusiastic ten minutes in the broom closet, dick in hand.

“Yes,” he said. Gods. What an idiot he sounded.

She stepped closer.

“I’m on the third floor,” she purred into his ear, “Last door on the left. Come and see me if you’d like to get to know yourself a little better.”

\---

He’d gotten through another bottle of cordial before the lady-witch swept away from the bartender, the hangers-on that flocked to her like moths, and back up the stairs she’d sailed down from.

Know himself a little better? Not really what he’d had in mind—though if pressed he could not have told you what that was. Still, better to know than not, and really who the fuck would turn down the opportunity—

Yennefer opened the door before he could knock. She did not invite him in, so much as sweep the door open and gaze at him, measuring. As if a single hair out of place might disqualify him. He stepped over the threshold, and apparently passed the damn exam, because she sniffed.

“Put your swords down.”

He did, and then reached out for her, wanting to put his hands on her, the black lines of her slender waist—

She stopped him with the barest touch of her fingertips to his chest. He froze, trembling, unsure what had gone wrong, but really what else happened when a beautiful woman breathily invited you up to her rooms?

“Oh no. You do not know how this is going to go yet.”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Stupid, _stupid_ , if he could say anything that was not the literal definition of stupid, that would be great.

She smiled, amused.

“You will find out…” she took a deep breath, and if he hadn’t known better, would have thought she was scenting him. “I know what you want.”

“And what’s that?”

She turned without answering, and glided over to a chair set in the middle of the room. Behind her, a screen rose up, white and rice paper, and beside her a small table sat with wine. She poured herself a glass, and did not offer him one.

“Take off your clothes,” she said, after a moment.

“Getting off to a good start, I see,” he snarked at her, even as his fingers trembled against the buckles of his armor. “Gonna tie me up, tell me I’m a bad witcher?”

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and she tilted her head, considering.

“For someone else? Perhaps. For you? Not even close.”

Half-tripping in his haste to get his pants off, Lambert shuffled a few steps nearer in the process of piling all his clothing in a heap by the door. Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him, and he hoped it was at his certifiable downstairs assets—

“I can smell you from here,” she said, not even looking below the belt.

Shame.

“There’s a bath behind the screen. Make yourself decent.”

Surprising even himself, Lambert did as he was told without a word of protest.

\---

The bath was, predictably, just a shade too hot, but he soaped and suds-d and scrubbed dutifully, listening intently all the while for movement from the other room. He heard none.

Towel-dried and crisped to a glowing pink, he padded back to see that Yennefer had not moved.

At his approach, she gestured to the bed with a wordless finger. He glanced sideways at her as he passed, step by tremulous step, and saw the red stain of wine against her lips, wanted to kiss it off—but knew, somehow, deep in his bones, that he would not be allowed.

That pleased him more than he would like to admit.

He went, and lay down obediently on the bed, lounging just a little against the obscenely expensive-feeling black velvet coverlet.

“Hot damn, do all sorceresses live like this? Shoulda gone to Aretuza instead.”

Her expression did not change, but he could tell her attention was on him, see the very faint pulse of her pupil as he moved. He grinned, hoping to cheek his way through the “seduction” phase of whatever this was, and get down to business.

“What are you waiting for? I want whatever you want. Come and get it.”

He waggled his eyebrows, hoping. He had no idea—but then, he had no idea what prompted her to bring him upstairs like this, either.

When she stood, it was with intention, and he wondered how much of that wine she actually drank, or whether it was all part of whatever strange scene this was.

“You want what I want?” she rumbled, gaze never leaving him, and he nodded before she could finish the sentence.

She smiled.

“Oh, don’t say that, baby boy. I might believe you.”

And didn’t that just go straight to his dick.

Before he had time to register anything but heat-want- _yes_ , she sat beside him on the bed, barely pressing a dent into the firm surface. Damn. What a mattress.

“I’m going to show you a thing or two those repressed idiots up at Kaer Morhen have forgotten in their estimable curriculum,” she told him, without the shadow of humor in her gaze. “Lay down on your stomach.”

He did.

With his face pressed into the covers, he turned his head to watch her as she got up to rustle around the room.

“I’m going to bind your wrists.” It wasn’t a question, but he nodded anyway. Pretty lady wants to tie him up after all, fine by him— “I’m going to blindfold you. Then, when you can’t see me or feel me except when I touch you, I’m going to stretch you out, slowly.”

Stretch— Him— _Oh._ The gears in his brain skidded to a halt, caught in that mental image, how it would feel under her heel—

“—and I’m not going to touch you anywhere else.”

She could be reciting a grocery list for all the enthusiasm in her voice, which took him back a little. Was this just business for her, after all? He could just barely see her out of the corner of his eye, back still turned, fully clothed, and rattling through drawers.

What was she getting out of this?

“And then what?” he asked out loud, barely able to keep the breathless anticipation out of his voice.

“Eager, aren’t we?”

Well, maybe not able at all, then.

Finally, she turned back to him, and held up—something. Not a giant phallus, which he’d been half-expecting, but something similar. Thick as a woman’s forearm, and just as long, ridged and widely flared at the base with something, something inside. It was vaguely familiar, like he’d seen it somewhere before in a very different context, but he couldn’t place it.

He flicked his eyes to her face in mock horror, but didn’t move. If his dick twitched at the thought of having that inside him, well. He was on his belly. She couldn’t tell.

“Know what this is?” she asked, smoothly as if arranging the details of a dinner party, as she sat on the bed again next to his face.

Still, he did not feel he’d been given permission to move, so he didn’t.

“No ma’am.”

“What a shame,” she said, leaning over him to take his wrists. “I think you’ll enjoy it all the same.”

The first spark of her skin against his own had an electric flicker running through him, burning up with heat already before he could get a finger on her. As she tied his wrists with something soft, he considered briefly the idea of showing off by breaking the thin cloth—he certainly could. But, he figured his chances at continuing the strange scene dropped off dramatically if he did.

So, he refrained. Just out of curiosity.

“Good boy,” said Yennefer, participating in his inner monologue as though she’d been invited.

When she picked up his head to tie the cloth over his eyes, he caught only a glance of black velvet and leather before his eyes fluttered shut in her grasp. Her touch was soft, but inexorable, and soon enough he lay face-down, blinded, with his hands tied. An ignominious position for a witcher, but he comforted himself with the idea that he could break his bonds quick as thought if he wanted.

And just now, he did not want.

The soft smell of her shifted away, and he heard her moving, unzipping, unbuckling. The shift of straps and clink of something glass told him little enough about what he was missing, and he felt that show, at least, was a shame to miss.

“What if I want to watch?” he said, pushing just a little.

A soft hum was his only answer for a long moment, and then the bed dipped again and he smelled her complex, sharply floral scent. She ran a single nail down his spine, starting from the crown of his skull and running all the way down, painfully slow, down the soft skin of his neck, and over every too-obvious indent of his vertebrae.

At the apex of his ass, she stopped.

“You get to watch, when I say you get to watch.”

That was, startlingly, absolutely fine.

He felt his cheeks flush, and hoped she wasn’t looking.

In point of fact, she may not have been, as a moment later something slippery and wet intruded, gently, at his entrance, and he gasped.

“Tight,” she said. “Shame.”

As she circled his hole slowly, teasing in and out over the ring of muscle, he thought that was a distinct untruth. Then, she dipped her finger in further, and he stopped thinking at all.

“Ahhkk—” left his mouth, inelegantly. Good—good—yes—

She stopped. “Have you never done this before?”

“I’ve had sex before, if that’s what you’re asking. Do I look like a virgin to you?”

“That is not what I am asking,” said Yennefer, coldly, still with one finger in his ass, and fuck if that wasn’t a weird feeling. “Have you been penetrated before?”

He wriggled uncomfortably side-to-side, and that, also, felt weird.

“Not quite. But uh, certainly not opposed,” he said, with more confidence than he felt.

“I can see that,” said Yennefer dryly.

He angled himself slightly more in her direction, so as to remove any further doubts, and was rewarded with a soft squeeze of his balls. Mmm. Yeah, that was good.

“You let me know if anything should hurt,” said Yennefer, and that too, was not a question.

Finally, finally, she started moving again, pushing that finger in, and in further, rolling her thumb or something over the puckered rim and _fuck._ She moved with languorous, smooth movements, dragging herself in and out just slow enough to be agonizing, and just strong enough to push his torso along the bed just a little bit. That friction was enough to torture his cock, grate near-painful over his chest, and _fuuuuuck._ Yeah, that, _nice._

He let out a sound that could have, in some circles, been considered a whine.

She added another finger, this one wetter than the first, and pulled him apart, slick and merciless, thrust after thrust. Dragging over his opening, teasing for a moment the skin below and before, then diving in again and again.

“Just gonna get right down to it, then,” he gasped out, between thrusts of her hand. Hands? Could be two, she wasn’t touching him anywhere else.

“I see no reason to delay.”

“Could you sound any more disinterested?”

“I assure you, if I were disinterested, you would not be quite so fortunate.”

She thrust in particularly deeply, and he made a garbled sound that definitely left drool on the bed.

“Perhaps I ought to gag you,” she added.

He wouldn’t mind if she did, but the threat did not materialize. Instead, she moved into him, and he clenched around her, once. The sensation of clenching around something that had crawled up inside him and made a home rippled through him. It felt… He felt… Decadent. Heavy. Rich and fucked-full and wanting more of that, like some rich brat getting a blowjob after a heavy dinner. Like this was something he should never be able to have, and yet was somehow getting away with.

She scraped over the sensitive skin again and again, and he wished she would touch more of him, any part of him—but especially his cock. Leaking precum against the bed, he knew he was making a mess, making a mess on her bed, and she would not be pleased, and he wanted to please—

Abruptly, she pulled out of him entirely, and he whined without shame this time.

He felt gaping, bereft, hole fluttering and wanting, wanting. He grunted a very little grunt, and pushed his hips back towards her desperately. She was moving away from him, fiddling with something on the bedside table, not attending to him. What was more important than—

“Wait,” she said, firm.

He stopped, and dropped back to the bed. Yennefer wanted him to wait. He would wait for her, because she said so and because good things came when you listened to her.

She made, for the first time, a small pleased noise deep in her throat.

A moment later, he felt a cool, wet sensation at his hole, an entirely different kind of texture slipping over the sensitive skin. Firm, smooth, wide. Very wide.

Yennefer placed a warm, gentling hand on the small of his back—though slightly moist—and he sank even deeper into the bed as she finally, finally touched him.

“Relax,” she said, a warm rumble in his ear as she leaned over him, and he felt the scrape of lace-covered breasts across his back for a brief moment.

Then, she slowly sank the head of her strange, ridged cock-toy-thing—inside him.

The stretch came first, unbearably slow, pushed wider than he’d ever been in his life, but even as he buried his face in the comforter and tried to relax against it, it was already past and through. The rest of the cock came after—he’d decided to stop trying to figure out what it was and just accept that she wanted to fuck him, and cocks were for fucking no matter who was wearing them—and it slipped inside easier, hot and solid and filling him up.

He groaned against the blanket, eyes screwed shut under the blindfold.

“Don’t feel that every day,” he got out, determined not to be made a fool of, even here. He wasn’t totally lost, just, not used to that feeling, not used at all, but he could get it together if he had to—

Swiftly, faster than she had moved all evening, Yennefer drew out of him and thrust back in again, so deep he could feel her hips against his, the scrape of cloth against his naked body. The iron stake of her cock filling him up to bursting.

He moaned against the feeling, the pressure building in his belly unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Fuck, the trials didn’t prepare a man for _this._

Fully seated in him, she drew up behind him, pressed against his back with all the hot weight of her, and breathed against his ear.

“This is just the beginning. This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Little wolf-slut.”

She drew her hips back, and rolled them up against him again, and again, and again. She punctuated every thrust with another name, “Wolf-slut. Little whore. Desperate. Just an empty hole… My empty hole, and I have such a filling for you.”

The words fell from her lips like gems, and he caught them all in the basket of his heart. Yes, yes, yes, he thought, arching back into her thrusts.

He had said he wanted what she wanted. Couldn’t argue now, not with this electric heat running up and down his spine, with his belly stretched to bursting with her, filled properly, finally. He hadn’t known this, this what he wanted, craved deep down in the heart of him. He’d watched women, when he fucked them, knew he liked to hold hips and belly and watch them move with his fucking. Knew he loved that, more than tits or ass or anything.

But speared on the end of Yennefer? There was life before this, and life after it.

He jolted from his pleasure-soaked reverie to her dark laughter.

“Is it not as I have said? You were to come here to know yourself.”

He should have been embarrassed, but instead he backed up against her, raised up on his elbows and knees for more. Once started, this fire only craved more, more, more, and she was not moving against him. He felt so _empty_.

At any other time, he would have been close to coming—very close. But this sensation was so strange, so new, that orgasm seemed far off. Lost in the haze of it, his sudden-slaked thirst, he felt glutted with a rush of pleasure so hot and rich it threatened to overwhelm him.

As he pressed back into her, she pushed him down with a steady hand on the back of his neck, as if she knew just how close he was to drowning. 

“Shhh,” she gentled, but he could barely hear her through the fire in his skin, the gnawing ache in his gut. Half-in, she hadn’t moved in several long moments, she just petted his neck through his garbled complaints until he relaxed into the mattress again. Not content, but calmed enough to register and revel in just how much of her was still inside him.

“I can fill you more, if you would like.”

Lambert opened one eye to the blackness of the cloth over his eyes. Right.

“Mmmff,” he said, coherently.

“There are eggs in this, if you want them.”

He was nodding before she finished, the thought of more an all-encompassing study. Yes more. More full, stretched to bursting, wanted to be heavy and full and—

She began to move again, hips sinking against his and he felt the stab of her cock all the way through him, pinning his belly to the bed, the weep of his own cock under them. He nearly cried with the rightness of it, screwed his eyes shut and tangled his hands in the blanket and wanted only that, that, that.

While she was inside, he felt a strange stretch again, and gasped against it, but even as he did, her hand brushed down his back again, relaxing him with the touch.

The stretch pushed through him, down the length of the cock inside, and then lessened with a strange increase of pressure on his midsection. Yennefer tugged him to his knees and elbows fully, and he swayed gently while she brushed a gentle hand over his belly, pointedly avoiding his cock.

“More where that came from.”

She brushed over a small rounded bulge in his abdomen, and he jolted at the sudden realization that she was so far and so much inside it that you could see it. He couldn’t—but she could.

Humming with what he hoped was pleasure, she rolled her hips against his again and again as another stretch began to build, then another, and then another. Each time, as his hole relaxed, he could feel the stretch as his belly widened to accommodate.

He began to feel the weight of it dragging him downwards to the bed, pressing against him in all directions, stretched and heavy—and very suddenly he needed to come right then.

But Yennefer held him still, not moving against him though she was fully sheathed, and cupped his swollen abdomen.

“One more,” she said gently into his ear, “One more, can you take it?”

He nodded, tears seeping out and wetting the blindfold before he even realized they were falling.

Mercifully, the next one slipped into him immediately, and he felt the soft expansion only a moment later. He opened his mouth to beg, to plead, to do anything if only she would move—

Before he could speak, she did. She moved against him, into him, the stretch of her against everything he now contained impossible in its swallowing of all other sensations. He felt—he felt fat with her, massive, with everything she’d put in him, proud that he could take it all even as he felt his belly brush the bed.

“Good,” she whispered, her breath coming quick and fast as his own as she moved fast and hard against him. “Good little wolf. I’m so proud, you took it all for me.”

Crying openly with the effort of it, and more full than he’d ever felt, Lambert came on her cock without an inch of shame. His climax burst through him, electric, an explosion of heat-pain-pleasure that tore through him, then settled in his belly with every aftershock.

Yennefer fucked him through it, gently, and stroked down his chest, his shoulders, his stomach when he was done—wet as it was. She guided him onto his side when he started to collapse, and slipped off him and away down the bed so he could fully lay down.

Still blind, Lambert was dimly aware of being stretched like an overtaxed waterskin and wet as a bitch in heat, but he really didn’t care. Dimly, he felt a soft cloth cleaning him and brushing tantalizingly over a very definite bulge in his stomach.

Great, so _that_ was a keeper. Fun, fun. Problems for tomorrow’s Lambert though.

Soft hands untied the blindfold from his face, and he blinked against the light for a second before promptly shutting them again. He did not want to see.

“That, little one, was an Arachas ovipositor,” said Yennefer, breaking the silence with the question he hadn’t thought to ask yet. “It is clean—though you have no concerns about the venom regardless.”

She patted the dome of his belly, as though he were a particularly well-fed piece of livestock.

“Those will stay for a few hours, and you can sleep it off if you would like. They will liquidate and pass on their own, they are infertile and therefore delicate, and of course will not take in you, anyway.”

She glided away from him, as composed as though she had not spent the last hour fucking his brains out. As if a practically pregnant man—and now _that_ thought was uncomfortably hot—lying in her very, very messy bed was a normal occurrence.

“What about you?” he tried, weakly, voice hoarse for some reason. Not like he could do much in his condition, but he didn’t intend to leave a partner unsatisfied.

She smiled a thin smile.

“Oh no. You haven’t earned that right.”

She patted him again, and he began to get the uncomfortable sensation that she was perhaps enjoying this in an entirely different way than he had expected. Still, bulging and wet, and utterly exhausted, he couldn’t see the point in arguing. He covered his stomach with his hand, not like that would hide anything, but still refused to look at it.

She touched his cheek.

“You can sleep and clean up here. I will be back in the morning. I expect you to be gone then.”

He nodded, once, and sleep took him.

\---

It was, all-in-all, a once-in-a-lifetime kind of fuck.

He didn’t go back, and she never sought him out, and somehow that only made it hotter. When he heard she’d shacked up with Geralt, more or less permanently, he almost understood. A little jealous, maybe, but who’s counting? He couldn’t stand more than one night like that in a row anyway, personally. Some things aren’t meant to see the light of day too often. Oughta stay fuckin’ buried.

A woman like that with Geralt though, it made sense, he’d always been dramatic. And prone to talking about his feelings. Though maybe the whole “chase her across the continent” thing was a little much. In his less flattering moments, Lambert considered bringing it up.

Probably bagged her first, anyway, and wouldn’t that just be a treat to dangle in front of his older brothers?

But, when it came to Yennefer, and what she’d done with him? Well, to him, really. He would be okay with never, ever talking about it again. None of that information needed to go anywhere, especially not to anyone with a wolf medallion around their neck. Best he could hope for would be for Yennefer to forget the whole thing. 

The only person he intended to discuss the subject with ever again was a very discreet young lady in Novigrad. That, was a business transaction, coin for very specific services and a good time. And if she had a flood of almost-black hair, and a prodigious strap collection? That was no one’s business but his own.


End file.
